A complex sentence with three or more parts. Non-isolated single gerund Meeting with a spring drop
- They're taking it away! My legitimate wife is being kidnapped, huh?! And Lisa never looked back.
... Finally she came out - in this huge terry dressing gown (and any would be great for her), with a white turban on her head. Picking up the floors with both hands and still stepping on them clubfoot, she - hello, Little Muk! - She splashed onto the balcony and stood there motionless for a long time, folding her thin, wide-sleeved hands on the railing, like a diligent schoolgirl at her desk. She looked at the black expanse of water with smoky-garnet constellations of yachts and ships and the carelessly circling crowd on the promenade. There the fun was just beginning. Both of them, slaves of touring galleys, have been accustomed all their lives to packing no later than eleven.
Returning to the room, she stopped in front of him - he was already lying in bed, wearing ridiculous round glasses on his sharp nose and intently scratching something on a sheet in the clipboard - pulled off the towel from her head, instantly puffing with carmine heat in the firebox of the crazy floor lamp, and with she said with chiseled hatred, addressing him for the first time:
"Just dare to touch me!"
Silence. He brushed rubber crumbs off the sheet on which, in search of a better motor function, he was developing a fundamentally new mechanics of the puppet's elbow assembly, and answered somewhat even absently:
- Well, what are you, baby ... Lie down, otherwise you will get cold.
The exhausting hammer was still thumping in both temples. And, damn it, he forgot his blood pressure pills. Nothing, nothing… Actually, today he did not hope for anything. And in general, everything is so beautiful that it is even hard to believe.
For about forty minutes he still tried to work, for the first time in many weeks he felt on the left the blissful presence of a tightly wrapped terry cocoon with a shock of hair that shimmered fieryly at any turn of his head and a thin, exposed knee. Freeze, catch a cold ... Be silent! Lie down, lie down, Petrushka, lie still, and someday you will be rewarded, you old fool.
Finally reached for the switch - how convenient everything is arranged here! - and at once extinguished the room, highlighting the blackened silver of the bay beyond the balcony ...
In the throbbing twilight from the depths of the hotel, from somewhere on the lower deck, flowed intermittently - through the noise of the embankment, the clinking of dishes in the restaurant and the minute bursts of female laughter - a trickle of music, barely reaching their open balcony.
The double bass walked back and forth with imposing steps, as if some fat man, crouching ridiculously, certainly wanted to make someone laugh. The banjo monotonously echoed him with the patter of street punks, and the fat man kept on puffing up, puffing and trying to make jokes, chipping the pretzel with amusing syncopations; the banjo laughingly spurted thick tufts of chords, and, mingling with the languidly flirting guitar and the vociferously soaring violin, everything merged into an ingenuous old foxtrot and was carried away to the sea, to yachts invisible from here ...
He lay with his hands behind his head, listening to the world beyond the balcony, to the inaudible guttural rustle of the bay, gradually subsiding inwardly, although he continued to prolong his wary, anxiously painful happiness... like a peeled chestnut—and didn't move when she stirred as she pulled herself out of her dressing gown—in her sleep? no, he didn’t doubt for a minute that she was awake, and she darted under the covers, rolled over there, dousing him with accumulated warmth, suddenly finding herself very close (to lie down, dog!), although it was possible to ride a bicycle across the expanses of this majestic bed ...
All his muscles, all his thoughts and unfortunate nerves stretched to the point where it was just right to squeeze out the fountain of accumulated pain with a hacking blissful cry ... And at that very moment he felt her hot palm on his tense thigh. This palm, as if surprised by a strange find, decided to thoroughly probe the boundaries of the object ...
“I missed you, he thought, I missed you, but you didn’t move, didn’t move ... no more ...” - and could not bear the torture, he leaned towards her with his whole body, timidly met her hand, intertwined his fingers ...
In the next moment, a slashing slap, rather grandiose for such a small hand, shook his sonorous head.
- Don't you dare!!! she called. - White-eyed bastard!!! - and sobbed so desperately and terribly that if the neighbors had not spent this hour in taverns and bars on the embankment, one of them would have called the police. And, by the way, this has already happened ...
He jumped up and shut the balcony door first; and while she emanated inconsolable sorrowful sobs, silently rushed around the room, waiting for this indispensable stage return, which, in fact, was not expected today, but, apparently, she missed her so much, she missed her so much, my poor! Yes, and too much has piled on her today, too fast a change of scenery - from the hospital ward to these palace chambers ... Maybe this is his next mistake, maybe it was worth renting a modest room in an inexpensive boarding house? And why does he, the idiot dog, never feel her mood?!
When at last she subsided, huddled under the covers, he crept up, sat down next to her on the bed and sat like that for a long time, pensively hunched over, clasping his hands between his knees, still not daring to lie down on the other side of the blanket knocked down by the ridge ...
Downstairs, the quartet was still playing; the guys honestly served their hack until late at night. They played well, with taste and even some sophistication, composing a program from the jazz music of the thirties and forties, and sounded, nevertheless sounded in these melodies, a warm, naive and sad hope: a little more, a little more to endure, and everything will work out! Tomorrow everything will be different... The sun, the breeze, the sea-boats... let's buy a bathing suit... some ring, what else is there?
Suddenly - after a long pause, when he decided that the musicians had already received the bill for today and, sitting down at the last table, put salads on the plates, - the native tune of Django Reinhardt's "Minor Swing" flashed, smiled and floated, hammered, drilled into every cell his body... No wonder: he danced his number hundreds of times under it with Ellis... Yes, yes: these few rhythmic and provocative steps of the introduction, during which - in a tailcoat, in patent leather shoes - he managed to slip onto the stage and pick her up, sitting alone in a chair.
And then it began: under the marzipan antics of the violin and the dryish beats of the banjo, the main melody enters: tara-rara-rura-reera-ah ... and - oomp-ump-ump-ump! - the double bass puffs out, and up to the very interruption, to the tart violin soar: ju-didu-ji-ja-ju-ji-ja-ah-ah-ah! Ellis is moving right here, under his right arm, the crimson sheaf of her curls tickling his cheek... oops! - interception - four steps to the left - interception and - op! - again interception - four to the right, and let's go, go, go, my baby, synchronously: foot to foot, right-left, right-left, sharply with the whole body - sharper, sharper! Op! Tara-rara-ruri-rira-ah ... And now you are like a languid silk patch on my arm: swim under the melancholy loss of the guitar and violin, swim, swim ... only fiery curls, hanging from the elbow, sway and twist, and snake, like a stream...
He did not pay attention to how he himself had already soared out of bed, and floats and sways in the full-bodied twilight of the night - his right hand, hugging the thin back of an invisible partner, is bent at the elbow, the left is imploringly outstretched - and floats and floats through the mockingly sensual labyrinth " Minor swing "...
He danced complex counterpoint to the smallest movements; his skillful fingers went over by heart all the levers and buttons, with the help of which the languid gestures of the now absent little Ellis were extracted - this is how spirits are called from the kingdom of darkness. His spine, neck, sensitive shoulders, hands and feet knew by heart every centimeter of the rhythmic pattern of this complex and intoxicating dance, which was applauded by the audience in many halls of the world; he whirled and intercepted, and, thrusting out his chin, threw a weightless fragile shadow on his left elbow, either rushing forward, then stopping as if rooted to the spot, then rapaciously bending over her, then pressing her to his chest ... And he did all this absolutely automatically, as if, thoughtfully, he walked along the familiar street, not giving an account of the direction and purpose of the path, not even hearing his own steps. If his movements left a trace in the air, then a most complex pattern would gradually be woven in front of the viewer: exquisite, hidden lace weaving, the cryptography of the carpet ...
Behind the balcony railing, high above the palm trees streaming their tatters, a perfectly crafted, albeit exaggerated copper moon, polished to a brazen shine (the illuminators overdid it), was firmly screwed into the starry sky. She flooded not only the entire bay, with all its shores, boats and boats at the berths; she invaded the room with a stubborn paraffin glow, giving each object a single piece of black shadow, leaving sweeping strokes, intricate monograms and intricate monograms on the walls, endlessly launching and launching a lace carousel of shadows along the curtains ...
And if at least someone could witness this strange picture: a miniature woman in deep oblivion and a man with a moonlit face, with really very bright eyes even in the twilight, who scurried around her in a swift, broken, dissolute dance, stroking the void with a hot palm, drawing this emptiness to his chest and freezing in a momentary spasm of passion - such a witness could well take this scene for the strained find of a fashionable director.
Only one thing deserved real surprise (even, perhaps, admiration): a sharp-nosed and awkward, round-shouldered man in ridiculous family shorts and a cheap T-shirt in the dance was so bewitchingly plastic, so ironically sad and so in love with the precious emptiness under his right elbow ...
With the last sharp turn of his head, the music stopped. Shadow carousel in last time dragged all her ghostly carriages along the walls and stood.
For two or three minutes he did not move, waiting for the soundless applause of the hall; then he swayed, dropping his hands, as if throwing off an invisible burden, took a step or two towards the balcony and slowly opened the door, letting in the tight breath of the night bay ...
His face shone... As silently as he danced, he crept up to the bed, on which his beloved froze like a motionless bag. Taking a deep breath, he knelt at the head of the bed, pressed his cheek against the blanket over her shoulder, and whispered:
- Do not hurry ... Do not hurry, my happiness ...
He did not pay attention to how he himself had already soared out of bed, and floats and sways in the full-bodied twilight of the night - his right hand, hugging the thin back of an invisible partner, is bent at the elbow, the left is imploringly outstretched - and floats and floats through the mockingly sensual labyrinth " Minor swing "...
He danced complex counterpoint to the smallest movements; his skillful fingers went over by heart all the levers and buttons, with the help of which the languid gestures of the now absent little Ellis were extracted - this is how spirits are called from the kingdom of darkness. His spine, neck, sensitive shoulders, hands and feet knew by heart every centimeter of the rhythmic pattern of this complex and intoxicating dance, which was applauded by the audience in many halls of the world; he whirled and intercepted, and, thrusting out his chin, threw a weightless fragile shadow on his left elbow, either rushing forward, then stopping as if rooted to the spot, then rapaciously bending over her, then pressing her to his chest ... And he did all this absolutely automatically, as if, thoughtfully, he walked along the familiar street, not giving an account of the direction and purpose of the path, not even hearing his own steps. If his movements left a trace in the air, then a most complex pattern would gradually be woven in front of the viewer: exquisite, hidden lace weaving, the cryptography of the carpet ...
Behind the balcony railing, high above the palm trees streaming their tatters, a perfectly crafted, albeit exaggerated copper moon, polished to a brazen shine (the illuminators overdid it), was firmly screwed into the starry sky. She flooded not only the entire bay, with all its shores, boats and boats at the berths; she invaded the room with a stubborn paraffin glow, giving each object a single piece of black shadow, leaving sweeping strokes, intricate monograms and intricate monograms on the walls, endlessly launching and launching a lace carousel of shadows along the curtains ...
And if at least someone could witness this strange picture: a miniature woman in deep oblivion and a man with a moonlit face, with really very bright eyes even in the twilight, who scurried around her in a swift, broken, dissolute dance, stroking the void with a hot palm, drawing this emptiness to his chest and freezing in a momentary spasm of passion - such a witness could well take this scene for the strained find of a fashionable director.
Only one thing deserved real surprise (even, perhaps, admiration): a sharp-nosed and awkward, round-shouldered man in ridiculous family shorts and a cheap T-shirt in the dance was so bewitchingly plastic, so ironically sad and so in love with the precious emptiness under his right elbow ...
With the last sharp turn of his head, the music stopped. The carousel of shadows dragged all its ghostly carriages along the walls for the last time and stopped.
For two or three minutes he did not move, waiting for the soundless applause of the hall; then he swayed, dropping his hands, as if throwing off an invisible burden, took a step or two towards the balcony and slowly opened the door, letting in the tight breath of the night bay ...
His face shone... As silently as he danced, he crept up to the bed, on which his beloved froze like a motionless bag. Taking a deep breath, he knelt at the head of the bed, pressed his cheek against the blanket over her shoulder, and whispered:
- Do not hurry ... Do not hurry, my happiness ...
Chapter Two
“... Yes, you will flutter, doctor! It’s time to come to your senses: it’s been three hours since they left, and you’re still looking for the fifth corner ...
No, as I remember this convoy: in front of her is the ghost of a woman, a fiery-haired elf with schizoaffective disorder, and behind him: with hard, like a vaga, stooped shoulders and a stiff gait, looking like a puppet more than all his puppets put together . Well, simply - Bluebeard with his innocent victim ...
Actually, why am I writing this? Is it possible that after so many years some graphomaniac ambitions are still alive in me? Yes, it seems not ... For a long time, accidentally stumbling across folders on publications of poems and stories by a certain Boris Gorelik, this ardent blockhead, I feel absolutely nothing: apparently, emigration is beating off some mental livers; all the more successful emigration, like mine - if, of course, consider the divorce from Maya luck.
No, lofty urges have nothing to do with it. Just a sudden desire to write down some thoughts opened the floodgates in memory, from which, first in a stream, and then the past gushed in a stream, retroactively explaining the events of our lives - soldered, as it turned out, more closely than any of the three of us could ever have imagined.
And every day, writing down several pages, you involuntarily build some kind of - albeit fragmentary, tongue-twistering and lame - but your own picture of the world. It is worse when you try to find your place in this picture, think about it and ... you find an imposing mustachioed nonentity under your own name.
And I always feel like a nonentity when I am present at the meeting of these two after separation.
The most ridiculous thing is that officially she really is my wife. How else could I get her into our clinic if she has no reason to be repatriated to Israel?
When, in 1996, the maddened Petka called me from Prague for the first time (they ended up there at the next festival of puppet theaters, having neither housing, nor citizenship, nor medical insurance; and, moreover, just died - and thank God! - this unfortunate child of theirs), when he called me, completely insane, so at first I could not really understand which of the two of them was crazy, and yelled: “Do something, save her, Borka !!!” - it was then that I had to remember that I had been successfully divorced for half a year and was quite ready for new idiotic achievements.
I don’t know what happened to my brain at that moment, but only my heart was torn from pity for both of them.
The main thing is that at that moment I for some reason - how it struck me! - I remembered the prophetic words of my unforgettable grandmother Vera Leopoldovna on the day when Petka announced that he and Liza had decided ...
- Boba ... - she said, entering my room and tightly closing the door with her broad back. - You will not be a friend, but a real shit, if you do not dissuade Petrusha from this disastrous step.
The unforgettable grandmother spoke four languages and all of them decisively and picturesquely, as good gynecologists usually say, but in Russian she expressed her thoughts especially naturally and weightily, with a tart interspersed with obscene language - when she considered it emotionally necessary. It used to happen that in childhood he would enter my room in the midst of the game, with the same cigarette in his mouth, and how he would bark in his inimitable bass: “Oh, Petlyura! Why is it so shitty around, people are kind?!”
"Stop that crazy cart, Boba, she'll crush him," Grandma said.
- Why? I asked puzzled.
- Because this baby is not from a good basket ...
And when I jumped up and began to seethe, she laid siege to me as soon as she knew how: with a contemptuous cold look. (My father, her only son, on such occasions used to say, grinning, "let's cut the problem open with a scalpel.")
"Fool," she said softly and authoritatively. - I'm a doctor. I don't care about the morality of that whole family. I don't care which of the wives her dad lost at cards, and with what joy her unfortunate mother jumped out of the bedroom window right in her nightgown. Now I'm talking about something else: there is a bad gene in the family, and this is not a joke.
“What other gene…” I muttered, feeling the haze and coldness of a deep pool behind her words.
- And such that her mother before Lisa gave birth to two boys, one after the other, and both with the syndrome. It's good that they were not residents.
What is the syndrome? Down?
- No Another. Who cares?
- No, you speak, speak! I yelled.
“Well…there is one,” she said. - It is called “Angelman syndrome” or “laughing doll syndrome”, and also “Petrushka syndrome”. Haven't learned yet? Such a mask on the face, sort of like frozen laughter, bursts of sudden laughter and ... dementia, of course. Doesn't matter! Talk to him like a man if you don't want me to interfere.
While Yegorushka was looking at the sleepy faces, soft singing was suddenly heard. Somewhere not close, a woman sang, but where exactly and in which direction, it was difficult to understand. The song, quiet, lingering and mournful, like a cry and barely audible, was heard now from the right, now from the left, now from above, now from under the ground, as if an invisible spirit was hovering over the steppe and singing. Yegorushka looked around and did not understand where this strange song came from; then, when he listened, it began to seem to him that it was grass singing; in her song, she, half-dead, already dead, without words, but plaintively and sincerely, convinced someone that she was not to blame for anything, that the sun had burned her out in vain; she assured that she passionately wanted to live, that she was still young and would be beautiful if it were not for the heat and the drought; there was no guilt, but she still asked someone for forgiveness and swore that she was in unbearable pain, sad and sorry for herself ... Yegorushka listened a little and it began to seem to him that the air became stuffier, hotter and more motionless ... To drown out the song, he, singing and trying to knock with his feet, ran to the sedge. From here he looked in all directions and found the one who sang. Near the outer hut of the village stood a woman in a short underwear, long-legged and shaggy, like a heron, and was sifting something; from under its sieve white dust lazily went down the mound. Now it was obvious that she was singing. A sazhen away from her stood a little boy in nothing but a shirt and without a hat. As if enchanted by the song, he did not move and looked down somewhere, probably at Yegorushka's red shirt. The song is silent. Egorushka trudged to the britzka and again, having nothing to do, busied himself with the trickle of water. And again the lingering song was heard. All the same ankle-legged woman sang over the hillock in the village. His boredom suddenly returned to Yegorushka. He left the pipe and looked up. What he saw was so unexpected that he was a little frightened. Above his head, on one of the large clumsy stones, stood a little boy in one shirt, chubby, with a large, protruding belly and on thin legs, the same one who used to stand near the woman. With dull astonishment and not without fear, as if he were seeing people from the other world before him, he, without blinking and with his mouth open, looked at Yegorushka's red shirt and the britzka. The red color of the shirt beckoned and caressed him, while the britzka and the people sleeping under it aroused his curiosity; perhaps he himself did not notice how a pleasant red color and curiosity drew him down from the village, and, probably, was now surprised at his own courage. Yegorushka looked at him for a long time, and he looked at Yegorushka. Both remained silent and felt somewhat awkward. After a long silence Yegorushka asked: - What is your name? The stranger's cheeks swelled even more; he pressed his back against the stone, bulged his eyes, moved his lips and answered in a hoarse bass: “Tit. The boys didn't say a word to each other again. After a little more silence and without taking his eyes off Yegorushka, the mysterious Tit lifted one leg up, felt for a point of support with his heel, and climbed onto the stone; from here he, backing away and looking point-blank at Yegorushka, as if afraid that he would hit him from behind, climbed the next stone and so climbed until he completely disappeared behind the top of the hillock. Seeing him off with his eyes, Yegorushka put his arms around his knees and bowed his head... The hot rays burned the back of his head, neck and back. The mournful song first died away, then again swept through the stagnant, stuffy air, the stream murmured monotonously, the horses chewed, and time dragged on endlessly, as if it had frozen and stopped. It seemed that a hundred years had already passed since morning... Wouldn't God want Yegorushka, the britzka and the horses to freeze in this air and, like hills, to turn to stone and remain forever in one place? Yegorushka raised his head and looked ahead of him with dull eyes; the lilac distance, which had hitherto been motionless, swayed and, together with the sky, rushed somewhere still farther ... She pulled behind her brown grass, sedge, and Yegorushka rushed with unusual speed after the fleeing distance. Some kind of force silently drew him somewhere, and after him the heat and a languid song rushed after him. Egorushka bowed his head and closed his eyes... Deniska was the first to wake up. Something bit him, because he jumped up, quickly scratched his shoulder and said: - Anathema of an idol, there is no death on you! Then he went to the stream, got drunk and washed for a long time. His snorting and the splash of water brought Egorushka out of her oblivion. The boy looked at his wet face, covered with drops and large freckles, which made his face look like marble, and asked: - Shall we go soon? Deniska looked at how high the sun was, and answered: - It must be soon. He dried himself with the hem of his shirt and, making a very serious face, jumped up and down on one leg. - Come on, who will soon reach the sedge! -he said. Yegorushka was exhausted by the heat and half asleep, but nevertheless galloped after him. Deniska was already about 20 years old, he served as a coachman and was going to get married, but he had not yet ceased to be small. He was very fond of flying snakes, chasing pigeons, playing money, running after him and always intervening in children's games and quarrels. It was only necessary for the owners to leave or fall asleep for him to do something like jumping on one leg or throwing stones. It was hard for any adult, at the sight of the sincere enthusiasm with which he frolicked in the company of youngsters, not to say: "Such a cudgel!" The children, however, did not see anything strange in the invasion of the big coachman into their area: let him play, so long as he does not fight! In the same way, small dogs do not see anything strange when some big, sincere dog enters their company and begins to play with them. Deniska overtook Yegorushka and, apparently, was very pleased with this. He winked his eye, and to show that he could gallop any space on one leg, he suggested to Yegorushka if he would like to gallop with him along the road and from there, without resting, back to the britzka? Yegorushka declined this offer because he was very out of breath and weak. Suddenly Deniska made a very serious face, which he did not do, even when Kuzmichov scolded him or waved a stick at him; listening, he quietly knelt down on one knee, and on his face appeared an expression of severity and fear, such as happens in people who hear heresy. He aimed at one point with his eyes, slowly raised his hand, folded like a boat, and suddenly fell on his stomach to the ground and slapped the boat on the grass. - Eat! he croaked triumphantly and, getting up, brought a large grasshopper to Yegorushka's eyes. Thinking that this pleased the grasshopper, Yegorushka and Deniska stroked his broad green back with their fingers and touched his antennae. Then Deniska caught a fat fly sucking blood and offered it to a grasshopper. He very indifferently, as if he had known Deniska for a long time, moved his large, visor-like jaws and ate the belly of the fly. He was released, he flashed the pink lining of his wings and, sinking into the grass, immediately crackled his song. The fly was also released; she spread her wings and without a stomach flew to the horses. A deep sigh was heard from under the chaise. It was Kuzmichov who woke up. He quickly raised his head, looked uneasily into the distance, and from this glance, which passed Egorushka and Deniska indifferently, it was clear that when he woke up he was thinking about wool and Varlamov. - Father Christopher, get up, it's time! he spoke anxiously. - He will sleep, and so they overslept the matter! Deniska, buckle up! Father Christopher woke up with the same smile with which he fell asleep. His face wrinkled from sleep, wrinkled and seemed to have become half the size. After washing and dressing, he slowly pulled out a small greasy psalter from his pocket and, facing the east, began to read in a whisper and make the sign of the cross. - Father Christopher! - said Kuzmichov reproachfully. - It's time to go, the horses are ready, and you, by God ... - Now, now ... - muttered Fr. Christopher. - Kathismas must be read... I haven't read it yet today. - It is possible and after with kathismas. - Ivan Ivanovich, for every day I have a situation ... It is impossible. - God would not charge. A whole quarter of an hour. Christopher stood motionless with his face to the east and moved his lips, while Kuzmichov looked at him almost with hatred and shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He was especially angry when Fr. Christopher after each "glory" drew in the air, quickly crossed himself and deliberately loudly, so that others crossed themselves, said three times: - Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, glory to you, God! Finally he smiled, looked up at the sky, and putting the psalter in his pocket, said: - Fini! (3) A minute later the britzka set off. As if she was going back, and not further, the travelers saw the same thing as before noon. The hills still sank into the lilac distance, and their end was not visible; weeds and cobblestones flashed by, compressed stripes flew by, and all the same rooks and a kite, solidly flapping its wings, flew over the steppe. The air froze more and more from the heat and silence, submissive nature froze in silence ... No wind, no cheerful, fresh sound, no cloud. But then, finally, when the sun began to descend to the west, the steppe, hills and air could not withstand the oppression and, having exhausted their patience, exhausted, tried to throw off the yoke. An ash-gray curly cloud suddenly appeared from behind the hills. It exchanged glances with the steppe - I, they say, is ready - and frowned. Suddenly, something broke in the stagnant air, the wind blew violently and with a noise, with a whistle, whirled around the steppe. Immediately, the grass and last year's weeds raised a murmur, dust swirled spirally on the road, ran across the steppe and, dragging straw, dragonflies and feathers, rose to the sky in a black spinning pillar and clouded the sun. Tumbleweeds ran across the steppe, far and wide, stumbling and jumping, and one of them fell into a whirlwind, spun like a bird, flew up to the sky and, turning there into a black dot, disappeared from sight. Another rushed after him, then a third, and Yegorushka saw how two tumbleweeds collided in the blue height and clung to each other, as if in a duel. A little bustard fluttered along the road. Flickering with wings and tail, it, bathed in the sun, looked like a fishing lure or a pond moth, in which, when it flickers over the water, the wings merge with the antennae and it seems that the antennae grow in front of it, and behind it, and from the sides. .. Trembling in the air, like an insect, playing with its variegation, the little bustard rose high up in a straight line, then, probably frightened by a cloud of dust, it rushed to the side and for a long time its flickering was visible. .. And here, alarmed by the whirlwind and not understanding what was the matter, a corncrake flew out of the grass. He flew with the wind, and not against, like all birds; this made his feathers ruffle, he swelled up to the size of a chicken and had a very angry, imposing look. Only the rooks, grown old in the steppe and accustomed to the turmoil of the steppe, calmly hovered over the grass or, indifferently, paying no attention to anything, hollowed out the stale earth with their thick beaks. Thunder rumbled dully over the hills; blew freshness. Deniska whistled merrily and lashed the horses. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov, holding their hats, fixed their eyes on the hills... It would be good if it would rain! Still, it seems, a little effort, one attempt, and the steppe would have taken over. But an invisible oppressive force, little by little, fettered the wind and air, laid down the dust, and again, as if nothing had happened, silence fell. The cloud hid, the tanned hills frowned, the air obediently froze, and only alarmed lapwings cried somewhere and complained about their fate ... Then evening soon came. III In the evening twilight a large one-story house with a rusty iron roof and dark windows appeared. This house was called an inn, although there was no courtyard near it and it stood in the middle of the steppe, not fenced in anything. Somewhat away from him, a miserable cherry orchard with a wattle fence grew dark, and under the windows, with their heavy heads bowed, stood sleeping sunflowers. In the garden a small mill was chirping, set up to frighten hares with the sound of hares. Nothing more could be seen or heard near the house except the steppe. As soon as the britzka stopped near the porch with a canopy, joyful voices were heard in the house - one male, the other female, - the door screeched on the block, and in an instant a tall, skinny figure appeared near the britzka, waving its arms and tails. It was the owner of the inn, Moisei Moiseich, a middle-aged man with a very pale face and a beautiful beard as black as ink. He was dressed in a shabby black frock coat, which dangled from his narrow shoulders, as if on a hanger, and flapped his tails like wings, every time Moisey Moiseich clapped his hands in joy or in horror. In addition to the frock coat, the host also wore loose white trousers and a velvet waistcoat with red flowers that looked like giant bugs. Moisei Moiseich, recognizing the arrivals, at first froze from the influx of feelings, then clasped his hands and groaned. His coat-tails waved, his back bent into an arch, and his pale face twisted into such a smile, as if seeing the britzka for him was not only pleasant, but also painfully sweet. - Oh, my God, my God! he spoke in a thin, melodious voice, panting, fussing, and with his body movements preventing the passengers from getting out of the britzka. - And today is such a happy day for me! Oh, what am I supposed to do! Ivan Ivanovich! Father Christopher! What a pretty young lady is sitting on the goats, God punish me! Oh, my God, why am I standing in one place and not calling guests to the upper room? Please, I humbly ask ... you are welcome! Give me all your things... Oh, my God! Moisei Moiseich, rummaging around in the britzka and helping the visitors to get out, suddenly turned back and shouted in such a wild, strangled voice, as if he were drowning and called for help: - Solomon! Solomon! - Solomon! Solomon! repeated a woman's voice in the house. The door on the block screeched, and on the threshold appeared a short young Jew, red-haired, with a big bird-like nose and a bald patch among coarse, curly hair; he was dressed in a short, very shabby jacket, with rounded tails and short sleeves, and short tribal trousers, which made him look short and short, like a plucked bird. It was Solomon, the brother of Moisei Moiseich. He silently, not greeting, but only somehow smiling strangely, went up to the britzka. - Ivan Ivanovich and Father Christopher have arrived! Moisey Moiseich told him in such a tone, as if he was afraid that he would not believe him. - Ai, wai, amazing thing, such good people came and went! Well, take things, Solomon! Please, dear guests! A little later Kuzmichov, Fr. Christopher and Yegorushka were already sitting in a large, gloomy, empty room at an old oak table. This table was almost alone, since in the large room, besides it, a wide sofa with a holey oilcloth and three chairs, there was no other furniture. And not everyone would dare to call chairs chairs. It was some kind of pitiful semblance of furniture with outdated oilcloth and with unnaturally strongly curved backs, giving the chairs a great resemblance to children's sledges. It was hard to understand what convenience the unknown carpenter had in mind when he bent the backs so mercilessly, and one wanted to think that it was not the carpenter who was to blame, but some passing strong man who, wanting to show off his strength, bent the backs of the chairs, then set about straightening and more bent more. The room seemed gloomy. The walls were grey, the ceiling and cornices were sooty, cracks stretched on the floor and gaping holes of incomprehensible origin (it was thought that the same strong man had pierced them with his heel), and it seemed that if a dozen lamps were hung in the room, then it would not cease to be dark. There was nothing resembling decoration on the walls or windows. However, on one wall in a gray wooden frame hung some rules with a double-headed eagle, and on the other, in the same frame, some kind of engraving with the inscription: "The indifference of men." It was impossible to understand what the people were indifferent to, since the engraving had faded greatly from time to time and was generously infested with flies. The room smelled musty and sour. Having led the guests into the room, Moisei Moiseich continued to bend, clasp his hands, shrug and exclaim joyfully - he considered it necessary to do all this in order to appear unusually polite and amiable. - When did our carts pass here? Kuzmichov asked him. - One party passed this morning, and the other, Ivan Ivanovich, rested here at lunchtime and left before evening. - And ... Did Varlamov pass here or not? - No, Ivan Ivanovich. Yesterday morning his clerk Grigory Yegorych drove by and said that he must be a taperichka on a Molokan farm. - Great. So, we will now catch up with the carts, and then to the Molokan. - God be with you, Ivan Ivanovich! Moisei Moiseich was horrified, clasping his hands. - Where are you going tonight? You will have dinner on your health and spend the night, and tomorrow, God willing, you will go in the morning and catch up with whoever you need! - No time, no time ... Excuse me, Moisei Moiseich, some other time, but now is not the time. We'll sit for a quarter of an hour and then we'll go, but you can spend the night with the Molokans. - A quarter of an hour! squealed Moisey Moiseich. - Yes, you be afraid of God, Ivan Ivanovich! You will force me to hide your hat and lock the door! At least have a snack and some tea! - Once we have teas and sugars, - said Kuzmichov. Moisei Moiseich bowed his head to one side, bent his knees and put out his palms, as if defending himself against blows, and with a painfully sweet smile began to beg: - Ivan Ivanovich! Father Christopher! Be so kind, eat tea with me! Am I really such a bad person that you can’t even drink tea with me? Ivan Ivanovich! “Well, you can drink tea,” Father Christopher sighed sympathetically. - It won't delay.Algorithm for punctuation in a complex sentence with two adjacent unions:
For example: “The planes were already buzzing somewhere overhead, and although they were not visible, it was as if a black shadow passed over the faces of the girls” (A. Fadeev). Wed : "The planes were already buzzing somewhere overhead, and although they were not visible, but as if a black shadow from their wings passed over the faces of the girls." Another example: “He knew that if the train was late, he would not meet her,” where the comma is not put, since the union “if” corresponds to the word “then”.
Levinson
Alarming news did not allow Levinson to budge this whole bulky colossus: he was afraid to take a rash step. New facts either confirmed or dispelled his fears. More than once he accused himself of being too cautious, especially when it became known that the Japanese had left Krylovka, and intelligence did not find the enemy for many tens of miles. However, no one except Stashinsky knew that Levinson could hesitate at all: he did not share his thoughts and feelings with anyone, presented ready-made “yes” or “no”. Therefore, he seemed to everyone, with the exception of such people as Dubov, Stashinsky, Goncharenko, a man of a special, correct breed. Each partisan, especially the young Baklanov, who tried to resemble the commander in everything, adopted everything from him, even external manners. Levinson decided to spend the night in the taiga because he was not sure that the lower reaches of the Khaunikhedzy were free from the enemy. Despite the terrible fatigue, at night, waking up, Levinson went to check the guards.
A. Fadeev "Defeat".
In the forest
We go further and further into the forest, into the bluish haze, cut by the golden rays of the sun. In the warmth and comfort of the forest, some special noise quietly breathes, dreamy and exciting dreams. Crossbills creak, tits ring, the cuckoo laughs, the oriole whistles, the jealous song of the chaffinch sounds incessantly, a strange bird squints thoughtfully. (...) A squirrel clicks, its fluffy tail flickers in the paws of the pines; you see incredibly much, you want to see more and go further.
Between the trunks of pines are transparent airy figures of huge people and disappear into the green density; the blue (...) sky shines through it. Moss lies like a lush carpet under your feet (...), bone berries sparkle in the grass with drops of blood, mushrooms tease with a strong smell.
Grandmother in the forest is like a mistress and dear to everything around - she walks like a bear, sees everything, praises everything and thanks. (...) So we lived all summer, until late autumn, picking herbs, berries, mushrooms and nuts. The collected grandmother sold, and they fed on it.
M. Gorky "Childhood".
Maksim Maksimych
After parting with Maxim Maksimych, I briskly galloped through the Terek and Darial gorges, had breakfast in Kazbek, drank tea in Lars, and arrived in time for Vladikavkaz for dinner. I will spare you descriptions of the mountains, exclamations that express nothing, pictures that depict nothing, especially for those who have not been there, and statistical remarks that no one will definitely read.
I stopped at a hotel where all travelers stay and where, meanwhile, there is no one to order to fry a pheasant and cook cabbage soup, because the three invalids who are entrusted with it are so stupid that you can’t get any sense out of them.
I was told that I had to stay here for another three days, because the “opportunity” had not yet arrived from Yekaterinrad and, therefore, could not go back.
The first day I spent very bored; on the other, early in the morning, a wagon drives into the yard ... Ah! Maksim Maksimych!
Maxim Maksimych fried the pheasant surprisingly well, successfully watered it with cucumber pickle, and I must confess that without him I would have had to remain on dry food.
Metelitsa reconnaissance
Sending Metelitsa on reconnaissance, Levinson ordered him to return at all costs that night ... It was already completely dark when he finally escaped from the taiga and stopped near an old and rotten omshan with a collapsed roof, apparently long abandoned by people.
He tied his horse and, clutching at the loose edges of the log cabin, crumbling under his hands, climbed to the corner, risking falling into a dark hole. Raising himself on tenacious, half-bent legs, he stood motionless for about ten minutes, vigilantly peering and listening into the night, invisible against the dark background of the forest and even more like a bird of prey. In front of him lay a gloomy valley in dark haystacks and groves, squeezed by two rows of hills, densely blackened against the background of an unkind starry sky.
Snowstorm jumped into the saddle and rode out onto the road. Its black, long-running ruts stood out in the grass. The thin birch trunks quietly whitened in the darkness, like extinguished candles.
He climbed a hillock: on the left, as before, there was a black ridge of hills, curved like the backbone of a giant beast; the river roared. About two versts away, it must have been near the river itself, a fire was burning, - he reminded Metelitsa of the orphan loneliness of a shepherd's life; further on, across the road, stretched the yellow, unblinking lights of the village. The line of hills on the right turned away, lost in the blue haze; in this direction, the terrain dropped sharply. As you can see, there was an old riverbed; along it blackened a gloomy forest.
“The swamps are there, not otherwise,” thought Metelitsa. He felt cold: he was in an unbuttoned soldier's sweatshirt over a tunic with torn buttons, with an open collar. He decided to go first to the fire.
A. Fadeev "Defeat".
Hero of our time
The conversation ended with this, and we continued walking in silence beside each other. The sun went down, and the night followed the day without a gap (...). I told them to put my suitcase in the cart, replace the bulls with horses, and for the last time looked back down the valley. A thick fog, surging in waves from the gorge, covered it completely, and not a single
the sound did not reach our ears. (...) There was still a mile to go to the station. It was so quiet all around that you could follow its flight by the buzzing of a mosquito. To the left a deep gorge blackened; behind him and in front of us, the dark blue peaks of the mountains were drawn in the pale sky, which still retained the last reflection of dawn. Stars began to flicker in the dark sky, and it seemed to me that they were much higher than in our north. There were bare black stones on both sides of the road; in some places bushes peeped out from under the snow, but not a single dry leaf stirred, and it was merry to hear, in the midst of this dead sleep of nature, the snorting of a tired postal troika and the uneven jingling of a Russian bell.
M. Lermontov "A Hero of Our Time".
Why is the bike stable?
The bicycle must be stable due to the actions of its "rider", who, feeling that his carriage is leaning, turns the handlebars in the direction of falling. The bicycle begins to move along a curve, there is a centrifugal force directed in the direction opposite to the slope. She fixes the car. This point of view explains why a stationary bicycle falls, why it is easier to keep balance the higher the speed, and why a bicycle whose handlebars do not turn cannot be ridden.
However, this theory cannot be true, or at least it is not completely true. Everyone who has ridden a bicycle must have noticed that at high speed the bicycle is very stable and cannot fall, even if you want to. On the move, the bike is largely stable itself, and the task of the rider is not to interfere with the machine to show this stability.
It can be said that learning to ride a bicycle consists in instilling in the student confidence in the stability of the machine and teaching how to maintain it with timely light turns of the steering wheel.
S. Grankovsky "Why is a bicycle stable?".
spring
The snow has not yet fallen from the ground, but spring is already asking for the soul. If you have ever recovered from a serious illness, then you know the blissful state when you freeze from vague forebodings and smile for no reason. Apparently, nature is now experiencing the same state.
The ground is cold, mud and snow squelches underfoot, but everything around is cheerful, gentle, friendly! The air is so clear and transparent that if you climb a dovecote or a bell tower, you seem to see the whole universe from end to end. The sun shines brightly, and its rays, playing and smiling, bathe in puddles along with sparrows. The river is inflating and getting dark, it has already woken up and will roar not today or tomorrow. The trees are bare, but they already live and breathe.
At such a time, it is good to drive dirty water in ditches with a broom or shovel, to launch boats on the water or to hammer stubborn ice with your heels.
Yes, all is well at this happy time of the year.
A. Chekhov (140 words)
Bezhin meadow
I finally found out where I went. This meadow is famous in our suburbs under the name Bezhina Meadows ... But there was no way to return home, especially at night; my legs wobbled beneath me from exhaustion. I decided to go up to the lights and, in the company of those people whom I took for herdsmen, wait for dawn. I got down safely, but before I had time to let go of the last branch I grabbed, when suddenly two large, white, shaggy dogs, barking viciously, rushed at me. Children's sonorous voices were heard around the lights, two or three boys quickly got up from the ground. I answered their questioning cries. They ran up to me, immediately recalled the dogs, who were especially struck by the appearance of my Dianka, and I went up to them.
They were peasant children from a neighboring village who guarded the herd.
I. Turgenev "Bezhin Meadow".
(123 words)
Along the Ussuri region
The vault of heaven seemed like a blue crystal bowl, which seemed to have been deliberately covered over the earth, just as young shoots are covered so that they grow faster. Not a breath of breeze below, not a single cloud in the sky. Sultry air hovered over the road. The trees and bushes were numb from the heat and wilted with leaves. The river flowed quietly, silently. The sun was reflected in the water, and it seemed as if two suns were shining: one from above, and the other from somewhere below. All small animals hid in their holes. Only the birds showed signs of life. The Manchurian lark still had the strength to describe circles in the air and greet the hot summer with sonorous singing. In the light forest near the road I noticed two blue magpies. Cautious, cunning birds, these jumped on the branches, deftly slipped through the foliage and timidly looked around. Elsewhere, in an old marshy creek, I spooked the Northern Puffin, a small grey-green bird with a yellow belly and a yellow neck. She rose into the air to fly away, but she saw a dragonfly and, not in the least embarrassed by my presence, set to hunting.
(112 words)
Frontal attack
Imagine two high-speed fighters hurtling straight at each other at full combat speed. The enemy plane is growing before our eyes. Here he flashed in all the details, his planes are visible, the sparkling circle of the propeller, the black dots of the cannons. Another moment - and the planes will collide and scatter into such pieces, according to which it will be impossible to guess either a car or a person. At this moment, not only the will of the pilot is tested, but also all his spiritual powers. The one who is cowardly, who cannot stand the monstrous nervous tension, who does not feel able to die for victory, will instinctively pull the handle towards himself in order to jump over the deadly hurricane rushing at him, and in the next moment his plane will fly down with a torn belly or a severed plane. He has no salvation. Experienced pilots know this very well, and only the bravest of them decide on a frontal attack.
Enemies madly rushed at each other. Alexei prepared for instant death. And suddenly, somewhere, as it seemed to him, at arm's length from his plane, the German could not stand it, slid up, and when ahead, like a flash of lightning, a blue belly lit by the sun flashed, Alexei, pressing all the triggers at once, ripped it open with three fiery streams.
B. Polevoy "The Tale of a Real Man."
Son of a dead warrior
A soldier's son who grew up without a father
And matured noticeably ahead of time,
You are the memory of a hero and father
Not excommunicated from cherished joys.
He didn't stop you
With his posthumous way harsh
On what he himself lived with joy,
That calls all living beings with an enticing call ...
But if you happen somehow
Folly, early youth
You decide to go down the shameful path,
Forgetting about honor, duty and vocation:
Do not support a comrade in trouble,
In, someone's grief to turn fun,
Cunning at work. Lie. Hurt mother.
To equal glory with an unkind friend, -
Then before you - there is only one covenant for you, -
Just remember, boy, whose son you are.
Alexander Tvardovsky (99 words)
A man in love with the world
A man in love with the world
Where gunpowder was invented long ago,
Each leaf is close and sweet,
Each ray is both priceless and precious.
He walks lightly on the ground
He smiles brightly at people
He is omnipotent in his craft,
He has the globe of the earth, as on a platter.
He admires every river
Worships every field.
He's got the ocean at his fingertips
He has a pole under his palms.
That's what a man is, that's what!
He doesn't need anything else.
Only would be forever and ever
The world around and comrades nearby.
Mark Lisyansky (82 words)
Gooseberry
From early morning the whole sky was overlaid with rain clouds; it was quiet, not hot and dull, as happens on gray overcast days, when clouds have long hung over the field, you are waiting for rain, but it is not. The veterinarian Ivan Ivanovich and the teacher of the gymnasium Burkin were already tired of walking, and the field seemed endless to them. Far ahead, the windmills of the village of Mironositsky were barely visible, on the right a row of hills stretched and then disappeared far beyond the village, and both of them knew that this was the river bank, there were meadows, green willows, estates, and if you stand on one of the hills, you can see from there such a huge field, a telegraph office and a train that looks like a crawling caterpillar from a distance, and in clear weather even the city can be seen from there. Now, in calm weather, when all nature seemed meek and thoughtful, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were imbued with love for this field, and both thought about how great, how beautiful this country is.
A. Chekhov "Gooseberry".
Gaia system
… To achieve what they want, people must have certain opportunities - the means to achieve the goal. So, we can get such means, resources necessary to ensure the co-evolution of man and the biosphere only through the power that mankind has acquired in recent decades. These are new technologies that will make it possible to include in the sphere of human activity the forces of nature that have been hidden from him until now, this is a new technology that is constantly being created, and, of course, the energy produced by man. Thus, the means that ensures the harmonious development of nature and man should be precisely that power of civilization, which is fraught with the main dangers for its fate. Here it is - the dialectic and the eternal inconsistency of our life.
Finally, the third position. It is not enough for a captain leading his ship to know the goal and have the means to achieve it - sails, oars, an engine, a rudder ... He still needs knowledge, he needs a tool that allows him to accurately predict the position of the ship, its speed, depending on how these or other possibilities on the way to the goal. The captain must be able to foresee his future depending on the actions he takes.
Now we see that the third condition necessary for humanity to enter the era of the noosphere and be able to solve the problems of controlled development can already be fulfilled today.
N. Moiseev "System" Gaia ".
Along the Ussuri region
As we went deeper into the mountains, the vegetation became better. (...) We also met animal trails; we used them as long as they stretched in the direction we wanted, but mostly went virgin. (...) Leaving the people below, Polikarp Olentyev and I climbed one of the neighboring peaks in order to see from there whether it was still far to the pass. All the mountains were clearly visible from above. It turned out that the watershed was two or three kilometers from us. It became clear; that by evening we would not reach it, and if we did, we risked spending the night without water, because at this time of the year the black springs at the sources almost completely dry up. I decided to bivouac where the horses were left, and tomorrow, with fresh forces, go to the pass. (…)
The sun had just managed to hide behind the horizon, and at a time when its rays were still gilding
mountain tops, twilight shadows appeared in the valleys.
V. Arseniev "In the Ussuri region."
Dnieper
The Dnieper is wonderful in calm weather, when it freely and smoothly rushes through forests and mountains full of its waters. It doesn't rumble, it doesn't rumble. You look and you don’t know whether its majestic width is moving or not, and it seems as if it is all poured out of glass and as if a blue mirror road, without measure in width, without end in length, flies and winds through the green world. It is a pleasure then for the hot sun to look around from the top and immerse the rays in the cold glassy waters, and the coastal forests to shine brightly in the waters. Green-haired! They crowd together with the wild flowers to the waters and, bending down, look into them and do not look enough, and do not stop admiring their bright image, and smile at him, and greet him, nodding their branches. In the middle of the Dnieper, they do not dare to look: no one, except for the sun and the blue sky, looks into it. A rare bird will fly to the middle of the Dnieper. Lush! It has no equal river in the world.
N. Gogol "Terrible Revenge".
(144 words)
Seryozha
At the appointed hour, Shurik and Seryozha came to Valery. Lariska, Valery's sister, was sitting on the porch, embroidering cross-stitches on canvas. She was planted here with the aim that if someone comes in outside, then say that no one is at home.
The guys gathered in the yard near the bath: all the boys, from the fifth and even the sixth grade, and one girl, fat and pale, with a very serious face and drooping, thick and pale, lower lip; it seemed that it was this drooping lip that gave the face such a serious, impressive expression, and if the girl had picked it up, she would have become completely frivolous and unimpressive ... The girl - her name was Capa - cut the bandages with scissors and folded them on a stool. Capa was a member of the sanitary commission at her school. She covered the stool with a clean cloth.
V. Panov "Seryozha".
When I think about my mother
When I think about my mother
I see a quiet village
And a garden wrapped in smoke
To keep the apple trees warm.
And that chicken, where it's not hot in the heat
And on a winter evening grace,
Where nothing is a pity for us,
In the war, accustomed to starve.
When I think about my mother
I also remember my father.
That thirty-odd years have not been with us,
Though he was faithful to us to the end.
He went into battle from cute arable land
And the words of the father's side.
And never get older
Soldier returning from the war.
When I think about my mother
My, only, dear,
Snow lying in the hills
As if melting in front of me.
And to me, chilled on the road,
Where they only dream of warmth,
Grasses lie softly at the feet,
And it smells like bread on the ground.
The sun laughs in every frame,
And distant people are kindred ...
When I think about my mother
The whole Motherland rises behind her.
Vladimir Demidov (140 words)
Encounters with a spring drop
The day was hot. The dew had dried up, and there was a strong steam from the ground. Corydalis and shaggy yellow bells bloomed in purple clearings along the edges. At noon, the kidneys were so tense that no more force could hold them back. And then they began to shoot green tongues of shriveled leaves. The bird cherry tree turned green in the evening. Pahom came (May 28) - it smelled of warmth. It is good at this time on our earth!
About two kilometers from the clearing, where I go in the spring to the grouse current, there is a tall triangular tower built by surveyors in a forest clearing. She stands out for her extraordinary growth even among the giantess sisters living in the area. I have long wanted to climb it and take a look at the surrounding forests from a height.
A dilapidated staircase leads up from bay to bay, and under the very tip there is a platform, and in the middle of the platform there is a table on one leg. (A familiar land surveyor explained: a table in order to have somewhere to put a rangefinder.)
The higher I climbed along the shaky, unreliable passages, the stronger the wind hummed in the rafters and the more noticeably the whole structure swayed with a wooden creak. But here is the last flight, I get out through the hatch to the platform and ...
I saw a familiar land far and free. I saw an undulating country of watercolor birch forests, white-trunked, pale chocolate, but already beginning to be shrouded in a translucent haze of blossoming foliage. The groves and copses thinned out the farther from me, the clearings between them became wider, and somewhere in the distance real fields emerged from them, along which small cars crawled like beetles day and night - there people hurried to put grains in the warmed earth. But this was only guessed by the imagination.
I looked the other way. Deaf ravines, overgrown with pines and old birches, ran down from the hillock, and under the mountain, through the plush pine crowns, the overflow of the wide-swinging taiga river shone through with a blue shard of glass. Behind her went to the horizon solid dark taiga. It was drawn by several thin lines of clearings, which were crossed obliquely by a thick line of high-voltage transmission. And again the imagination guessed in the distance logging roads and rectangles of cutting areas, on which
chainsaws chime from morning to evening and skidders rumble.
V. Petrov "Meetings with a spring drop."
(243 words)
Strokes for a portrait
Valentin Ivanovich Dikul has the hands of a craftsman, and the head of an inventor, a creator. He belongs to that happy category of people who take on anything - they set everything in motion, and everything works out for them. In any case, he achieves professionalism, goes to the main problems. And even if he does not know the solution, innate intuition unmistakably tells him the way to the goal. He knows how to make those around him like-minded people, charges with his energy, you want to keep up with him.
How does he only have time, where does he find time for everything? From morning to evening without days off in the circus. There are always people in the dressing room, and he helps everyone. If he leaves for an hour or two, he warns the watchman, and it is always known when he will be back. Often he doesn’t have time to eat or rest. Daily rehearsals and every evening performances at the arena, the very ones where he holds the Volga, fixes a ton in the pyramid and juggles with weights of 80 kilograms.
In the hotel, from ten to eleven in the evening, the telephone rings continuously. And he patiently talks with everyone, asks questions, gives advice, asks to come or promises to visit himself. Where his strength comes from is hard to imagine.
And he is expected to help. He dictates, his wife Lyudmila types on a typewriter. Unfortunately, it is not always possible to answer immediately.
It is impossible to see Dikul without work. Therefore, one has to speak with him in fits and starts: during rehearsals, on the way to a hotel or to the circus, between telephone conversations or dictation of letters, at best - over food. Talking with him about patients, you forget that he is not a doctor - his medical erudition is so wide and versatile.
M. Zalessky (185 words)
river in the morning
The river is especially good in the morning. In these early hours, the wind does not yet disturb her bosom, and it, reflecting the clear pink-blue sky, shines with an even light, transparent and cool, like crystal. Not a single longboat plows the surface of the river, and if somewhere a noisy carp rises somewhere or a fast osprey strikes the water with a sharp, white-lined wing on the fly, then circles will disperse along the still water, for a moment the pinkish spill will stir up and disappear imperceptibly, silently, as if they didn't exist.
Only a fisherman really knows what a morning river is: these disembodied, melting at dawn, white and blue fogs; these green shores, on which golden sands stretch far, far away, and above them - a dark strip of poplar forest; those iridescent gleams of the rising sun on clear water, the fresh smell of wet sand and fish, resin and herbs; it is an unbreakable silence in which every, even the most indistinct and weak sound, evokes a warm, lively response in the human heart.
V. Zakrutkin "Floating village".
A.K. Timiryazev - lecturer
A perfect contrast to other lectures are the lectures of Kliment Arkadyevich Timiryazev, a representative of the discipline that became the most distant to me at the time when he began to read to us. And besides, heavily loaded with the interests of literature, the arts, methodology, I went to listen to Timiryazev from time to time in order to see a beautiful, animated person, with rhythmic zigzags of an inspired voice rushing upwards.
I admired him: agitated, more nervous, with the thinnest face, on which a change of through expressions, especially bright during pauses, when he, stretching his body forward, and stepping back with his foot, as in a minuet, was preparing with his voice, thought, hand and strand to rush on a whine . Thus, he flew into a large physical auditorium, where he read and where people from all faculties and courses came to meet him with thunderous applause and shouts. He stood, half-bent, but as if stretched out or drawn to us, weighing in the air a very thin, graceful hand.
This welcoming gesture to us, like an answer to a greeting, went to him in such a way, flying off so unconsciously that any thought that it had effects (slanderers spoke of it that way) fell away.
At the first lecture for the third year, under stomping, applause, he took off with a watermelon under his arm; knew that he would leave this watermelon, the watermelon would be eaten by the students.
He (watermelon) is a demonstration of a cell: a rare example that it can be seen with the eyes; Timiryazev cut pieces of watermelon and put them between the rows.
At this time, his struggle with the ministry proceeded with the same ups and downs; I remember how he threw down the gauntlet when he left the university and how he, being persecuted, achieved his goal; I remember how the crowd rushed to meet him, and he blossomed before them...
A. Bely "At the turn of two centuries."
“Liza…” the doctor muttered, suddenly leaning intently towards the computer screen, sighing and wiggling his eyebrows, which were separate and wide on his face (he never knew how to pretend, just as he couldn’t write off tests at school). - You are my Liza, Lizonka ...
– And you were right! she continued with a kind of merry pressure, constantly touching objects on the polished tabletop with her restless fingers - a bronze bowl with paper clips, a stapler, a souvenir Hasidic dancer with a raised knee - now lining them up in a straight line, then pushing them apart again with the movement of her index finger. - He was right that it is necessary to start right off the bat, cutting off everything! I cut off everything in my life, Borya, without looking back, without fear of anything. I am now internally free, completely free from it! I'm no longer a puppet that can be...
And then, intercepting Boris's helpless gaze, directed over her head to the far corner of the room, she instantly turned around.
This was followed by a stormy, jerky mise-en-scene: two men, as if on cue, jumped up, and only the nets were missing in their hands to swat the butterfly swept by the dotted line. However, everything lasted no more than five seconds.
She silently sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands and froze like that.
“Liza…” Dr. Gorelik, crimson, unhappy, walked around the table and gently touched her cramped, childish-looking shoulders. “You’re smart and you understand everything yourself ... Well, well, Lisa, please don’t be so terribly cold!” You know what you need period uhm… adaptations. There are also domestic circumstances, Liza! They must be reckoned with. A person cannot live outside of society, in the air, nowhere ... You have already recovered, it’s true, and ... everything is fine, and everything, believe me, will be just fine ... But for now, you yourself understand ... you’re smart ... Petya is only temporarily - think about it, - temporarily ... well, just as, um ... a friendly shoulder ...
The one in as a friendly shoulder, with a lifeless, bony face, with a throbbing hole under the ribs, with empty eyes looked out the window, where under control bringing gifts the hands of the black sorcerer-guard slowly backed away from the lattice of automatic gates, letting an ambulance car into the hospital territory ...
He knew that those first minutes would be just that: her naked, helpless hatred; his, whatever one may say, naked helpless violence. Always prepared for those damned moments—and never been ready for them.
* * *
All the way to Eilat, he outwardly remained imperturbable, melancholy whistling, sometimes turning to her with some insignificant question:
Do you want by the window or...?
She didn't answer, of course.
It's okay, he told himself, just like last time. He hoped for Eilat - the forecasts promised heavenly blue and ruddy mountains there - and relied on the hotel, for which, with all their seasonal good deeds, he laid out dazzling money.
By the time we had flown in, by the time we had settled into a dazzlingly luxurious room on the ninth floor, with a balcony overlooking the swaying of long lights in the water of the bay, the yellow-blue electric haze of Aqaba so close, it was already dark ...
They went downstairs and had a silent supper in a Chinese restaurant a stone's throw from the sea, among the large-mouthed, lacquered-scaled house dragons, placed around the entire perimeter of the hall. She studied the menu for a long time and then for fifteen minutes tortured the waiter - a stocky, quite natural-looking Chinese (probably still Thai) - about the composition of the sauces. She always chirped well in both French and English: her father's heritage.
In the end, I ordered something unpronounceable for myself. He, under the courteous gaze of impenetrable eyes, muttered “ay tu”, after which he tried to cope with sweet and sour pods mixed with pieces of spicy chicken meat with a fork. He did not feel like eating at all, although the last time he ate - or rather, drank vodka from a plastic cup - was at night, on an airplane. And he knew that he would not be able to eat until ...
After dinner, we walked—she was in front, he was following—along the merry, stupidly crowded trading part of the embankment, crowded with stalls and shops, where the wind was eyeing the colorful bloomers hung everywhere, shiny scarves and long threads of slyly jingling bells. We walked along the withers of the Dutch bridge over the canal, in the black water of which the string of lights of the nearest hotel swayed in a fiery zigzag; huddled between the shelves of the Stematsky bookstore, where she suddenly rushed (a good sign!) and for about ten minutes, bending her blazing sheaf of curls to her shoulder, she read, moving her lips, the titles of books in the Russian department (three shelves of small motley roach brought here Russian divorce ). He hurried to ask: “Would you like any? ..” - a mistake, a mistake! – she silently turned around and headed for the exit; he follows her...
In the distance, a giant tower of some kind of amusement ride was throwing a fireball into the black sky, oozing with a delightful girlish squeal.
She kept silent, but, furtively glancing at her profile of a stained-glass angel, illuminated by the light of shop windows and lanterns, he noticed with hope how her lips give in a little, deepening a tiny scar in the left corner of her mouth, how her chin slightly rounds, her mustard-honey eyes shine more animatedly. ... And when they approached the attraction and inside the illuminated ball they saw a girl in a soldier's uniform who lifted both legs funny, she looked back at him, unable to hold back her smile, and he dared to smile back at her ...
We returned to the hotel by ten, and also drank some kind of viscous liquor in the hotel bar (what the hell, everything is expensive here!); at last they entered the glass cylinder of the noiseless elevator and floated up, swiftly, as if in a dream, stringing transparent floors one on top of the other. Then, along the endless carpet silence of the corridor, along the trembling - on the black mountains - crystal clouds of lights, they reached the right door, and - here it is, in the underwater light of half-asleep floor lamps, their huge aquarium with flooded full-width wall of the balcony, with a magnificent, surgically white bathroom. Bravo, Petrushka!
While she was splashing in the shower (a complex polyphony of the tight pressure of water, whispering murmuring jets, the last breaths of a dying drop, finally, the buzz of a hair dryer; for a moment, even a slight purr seemed to be? .. no, I was mistaken, do not rush, this is behind the wall or from the neighboring balcony) , he unwrapped the whitest arctic bed with two huge icebergs of pillows, undressed, unbraided his pigtail, cheering up his thick black tresses with bright gray hair, and thereby transformed into a perfect Indian, especially since, half-naked, in an old Soviet T-shirt and shorts, he is strange in a way he lost his sinewy frailty, revealing the unexpectedly developed muscles of a picky predatory body.
Sitting on the bed, he took out his eternal tablet with sketches and drawings from his backpack, thinking for a moment whether it was worth pulling out all this household in front of her now. And he decided: it’s okay, she doesn’t think that he changed his craft. Let everything be as usual. Doctor Gorelik said: let everything be as usual. By the way, looking for a pencil in the innumerable pockets of a backpack, he came across five hundred-dollar bills rolled up into a tube, which Borka managed to squeeze into a box with her lithium pills. Oh Borka...
He remembered how he fussed, seeing them to the gate: the good doctor Aibolit, a giant who did not know what to do with himself; patted Petya on the back with a soft fist, as if trying to straighten his stoop, and muttered indignantly foolishly:
- They're taking it away! My legitimate wife is being kidnapped, huh?! And Lisa never looked back.
... Finally she came out - in this huge terry dressing gown (and any would be great for her), with a white turban on her head. Picking up the floors with both hands and still stepping on them clubfoot, she - hello, Little Muk! - She splashed onto the balcony and stood there motionless for a long time, folding her thin, wide-sleeved hands on the railing, like a diligent schoolgirl at her desk. She looked at the black expanse of water with smoky-garnet constellations of yachts and ships and the carelessly circling crowd on the promenade. There the fun was just beginning. Both of them, slaves of touring galleys, have been accustomed all their lives to packing no later than eleven.
Returning to the room, she stopped in front of him - he was already lying in bed, wearing ridiculous round glasses on his sharp nose and intently scratching something on a sheet in the clipboard - pulled off the towel from her head, instantly puffing with carmine heat in the firebox of the crazy floor lamp, and with she said with chiseled hatred, addressing him for the first time:
"Just dare to touch me!"
Silence. He brushed rubber crumbs off the sheet on which, in search of a better motor function, he was developing a fundamentally new mechanics of the puppet's elbow assembly, and answered somewhat even absently:
- Well, what are you, baby ... Lie down, otherwise you will get cold.
The exhausting hammer was still thumping in both temples. And, damn it, he forgot his blood pressure pills. Nothing, nothing… Actually, today he did not hope for anything. And in general, everything is so beautiful that it is even hard to believe.
For about forty minutes he still tried to work, for the first time in many weeks he felt on the left the blissful presence of a tightly wrapped terry cocoon with a shock of hair that shimmered fieryly at any turn of his head and a thin, exposed knee. Freeze, catch a cold ... Be silent! Lie down, lie down, Petrushka, lie still, and someday you will be rewarded, you old fool.
Finally reached for the switch - how convenient everything is arranged here! - and at once extinguished the room, highlighting the blackened silver of the bay beyond the balcony ...
In the throbbing twilight from the depths of the hotel, from somewhere on the lower deck, flowed intermittently - through the noise of the embankment, the clinking of dishes in the restaurant and the minute bursts of female laughter - a trickle of music, barely reaching their open balcony.
The double bass walked back and forth with imposing steps, as if some fat man, crouching ridiculously, certainly wanted to make someone laugh. The banjo monotonously echoed him with the patter of street punks, and the fat man kept on puffing up, puffing and trying to make jokes, chipping the pretzel with amusing syncopations; the banjo laughingly spurted thick tufts of chords, and, mingling with the languidly flirting guitar and the vociferously soaring violin, everything merged into an ingenuous old foxtrot and was carried away to the sea, to yachts invisible from here ...
He lay with his hands behind his head, listening to the world beyond the balcony, to the inaudible guttural rustle of the bay, gradually subsiding inwardly, although he continued to prolong his wary, anxiously painful happiness... like a peeled chestnut—and didn't move when she stirred as she pulled herself out of her dressing gown—in her sleep? no, he didn’t doubt for a minute that she was awake, and she darted under the covers, rolled over there, dousing him with accumulated warmth, suddenly finding herself very close (to lie down, dog!), although it was possible to ride a bicycle across the expanses of this majestic bed ...
All his muscles, all his thoughts and unfortunate nerves stretched to the point where it was just right to squeeze out the fountain of accumulated pain with a hacking blissful cry ... And at that very moment he felt her hot palm on his tense thigh. This palm, as if surprised by a strange find, decided to thoroughly probe the boundaries of the object ...
“I missed you, he thought, I missed you, but you didn’t move, didn’t move ... no more ...” - and could not bear the torture, he leaned towards her with his whole body, timidly met her hand, intertwined his fingers ...
In the next moment, a slashing slap, rather grandiose for such a small hand, shook his sonorous head.
- Don't you dare!!! she called. - White-eyed bastard!!! - and sobbed so desperately and terribly that if the neighbors had not spent this hour in taverns and bars on the embankment, one of them would have called the police. And, by the way, this has already happened ...
He jumped up and shut the balcony door first; and while she emanated inconsolable sorrowful sobs, silently rushed around the room, waiting for this indispensable stage return, which, in fact, was not expected today, but, apparently, she missed her so much, she missed her so much, my poor! Yes, and too much has piled on her today, too fast a change of scenery - from the hospital ward to these palace chambers ... Maybe this is his next mistake, maybe it was worth renting a modest room in an inexpensive boarding house? And why does he, the idiot dog, never feel her mood?!
When at last she subsided, huddled under the covers, he crept up, sat down next to her on the bed and sat like that for a long time, pensively hunched over, clasping his hands between his knees, still not daring to lie down on the other side of the blanket knocked down by the ridge ...
Downstairs, the quartet was still playing; the guys honestly served their hack until late at night. They played well, with taste and even some sophistication, composing a program from the jazz music of the thirties and forties, and sounded, nevertheless sounded in these melodies, a warm, naive and sad hope: a little more, a little more to endure, and everything will work out! Tomorrow everything will be different... The sun, the breeze, the sea-boats... let's buy a bathing suit... some ring, what else is there?
Suddenly - after a long pause, when he decided that the musicians had already received the bill for today and, sitting down at the last table, put salads on the plates, - the native tune of Django Reinhardt's "Minor Swing" flashed, smiled and floated, hammered, drilled into every cell his body... No wonder: he danced his number hundreds of times under it with Ellis... Yes, yes: these few rhythmic and provocative steps of the introduction, during which - in a tailcoat, in patent leather shoes - he managed to slip onto the stage and pick her up, sitting alone in a chair.
And then it began: under the marzipan antics of the violin and the dryish beats of the banjo, the main melody enters: tara-rara-rura-reera-ah ... and - oomp-ump-ump-ump! - the double bass puffs out, and up to the very interruption, to the tart violin soar: ju-didu-ji-ja-ju-ji-ja-ah-ah-ah! Ellis is moving right here, under his right arm, the crimson sheaf of her curls tickling his cheek... oops! - interception - four steps to the left - interception and - op! - again interception - four to the right, and let's go, go, go, my baby, synchronously: foot to foot, right-left, right-left, sharply with the whole body - sharper, sharper! Op! Tara-rara-ruri-rira-ah ... And now you are like a languid silk patch on my arm: swim under the melancholy loss of the guitar and violin, swim, swim ... only fiery curls, hanging from the elbow, sway and twist, and snake, like a stream...
He did not pay attention to how he himself had already soared out of bed, and floats and sways in the full-bodied twilight of the night - his right hand, hugging the thin back of an invisible partner, is bent at the elbow, the left is imploringly outstretched - and floats and floats through the mockingly sensual labyrinth " Minor swing "...
He danced complex counterpoint to the smallest movements; his skillful fingers went over by heart all the levers and buttons, with the help of which the languid gestures of the now absent little Ellis were extracted - this is how spirits are called from the kingdom of darkness. His spine, neck, sensitive shoulders, hands and feet knew by heart every centimeter of the rhythmic pattern of this complex and intoxicating dance, which was applauded by the audience in many halls of the world; he whirled and intercepted, and, thrusting out his chin, threw a weightless fragile shadow on his left elbow, either rushing forward, then stopping as if rooted to the spot, then rapaciously bending over her, then pressing her to his chest ... And he did all this absolutely automatically, as if, thoughtfully, he walked along the familiar street, not giving an account of the direction and purpose of the path, not even hearing his own steps. If his movements left a trace in the air, then a most complex pattern would gradually be woven in front of the viewer: exquisite, hidden lace weaving, the cryptography of the carpet ...
Behind the balcony railing, high above the palm trees streaming their tatters, a perfectly crafted, albeit exaggerated copper moon, polished to a brazen shine (the illuminators overdid it), was firmly screwed into the starry sky. She flooded not only the entire bay, with all its shores, boats and boats at the berths; she invaded the room with a stubborn paraffin glow, giving each object a single piece of black shadow, leaving sweeping strokes, intricate monograms and intricate monograms on the walls, endlessly launching and launching a lace carousel of shadows along the curtains ...
And if at least someone could witness this strange picture: a miniature woman in deep oblivion and a man with a moonlit face, with really very bright eyes even in the twilight, who scurried around her in a swift, broken, dissolute dance, stroking the void with a hot palm, drawing this emptiness to his chest and freezing in a momentary spasm of passion - such a witness could well take this scene for the strained find of a fashionable director.
Only one thing deserved real surprise (even, perhaps, admiration): a sharp-nosed and awkward, round-shouldered man in ridiculous family shorts and a cheap T-shirt in the dance was so bewitchingly plastic, so ironically sad and so in love with the precious emptiness under his right elbow ...
With the last sharp turn of his head, the music stopped. The carousel of shadows dragged all its ghostly carriages along the walls for the last time and stopped.
For two or three minutes he did not move, waiting for the soundless applause of the hall; then he swayed, dropping his hands, as if throwing off an invisible burden, took a step or two towards the balcony and slowly opened the door, letting in the tight breath of the night bay ...
His face shone... As silently as he danced, he crept up to the bed, on which his beloved froze like a motionless bag. Taking a deep breath, he knelt at the head of the bed, pressed his cheek against the blanket over her shoulder, and whispered:
- Do not hurry ... Do not hurry, my happiness ...